Her Feet

he’d been laying there awhile, on his back, Her feet upon his face, heels a gentle pressure over his eyes Her toes pointing downwards, gently resting on his chin. Every now and then when She giggled at the programme She watched She would bring them together, squeezing his nose and cutting off his air, and during the adverts he could tell She was bored, as he counted as his heartbeats thundering in his ears, fighting to control his need to breathe, then gasping for air as She released him. He had wondered why She had rolled the cellophane around his face, more specifically over his mouth, and this new game of Hers at least explained it. It was part of his devotion to Her this constant invention. When he had initially lain down, he was aroused and excited, and though he still found himself intoxicated, at least his penis had subsided, he had lost count of the times She had chastised and mocked him about his arousal in Her presence. Now all he needed to concentrate on was breathing.

The Television clicked off and She moved, , moving Her foot onto his chest, he braced himself, and She stood, Her weight pressing down upon his chest, her toes toying with his nipples, he tried to open his eyes, but the cellophane kept them shut, and She walked down his body, sure soft steps, Her foot grazing over his, excitable organ, which twitched again. He heard Her laugh and step off of him, then the cellophane at his mouth, tore and he could at last breath through his mouth.

She still hadn’t spoken and he waited his ears ringing in the now silent room, Her toes traced down his body, then ran through the clear fluid that had expelled onto his thigh.

Her foot thrust into his mouth, and as She pushed it further in he gagged, and the bitter salty taste of himself smeared his tongue and throat, then as She drew it out, he began, cleaning her toes, caressing each one with his tongue, closing his mouth around them one at a time, She moved them for him, always evident when she was tired of a particular ministration, then after he had cleaned each and was sliding his tongue between them, She giggled, kicking him and chastising him for his feathery tongue, Her words made his head swim in the silence and he broaden his tongue, now longer darting but lapping at her flesh, tasting the soft sheen of sweat and skin. She moved again and he rolled his head, to ensure that his tongue could cover all of the underside of her foot, it felt unusually wet with sweat he guessed that was why she had sat, allowing them to sweat against his cellophaned face and his stomach flipped again, Her mind was truly a trap for erotic torment.

Finally She reached down, tearing off the remaining cellophane, he blinked, at the light, Her face swimming into focus. She smiled at down at him, before telling him to fix supper.

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